


Fifteen Minute Flame

by BlessedPicturesPresents



Category: Alan Wake (Video Game), Alan Wake's American Nightmare
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Blow Jobs, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Rough Oral Sex, Shooting Guns, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedPicturesPresents/pseuds/BlessedPicturesPresents
Summary: A bet's made, and Scratch loses.
Relationships: Mr. Scratch/Alan Wake
Kudos: 8





	Fifteen Minute Flame

**Author's Note:**

> title from Poets of the Fall "Fifteen Minute Flame".

“Yeah, well. Bet you couldn’t do better,” Wake hisses under his breath, aiming the next shot.

In a burst of shadows, Scratch appears directly in front of Wake, who stumbles back, a sharp cry escaping him. Scratch speaks carefully, voice dripping with malice: “ _What did you just say?_ ”

For a second, Wake loses the conviction to follow through, a prickle of fear teasing the hairs on the back of his neck up, but now that Scratch is leaning into his face, bleeding shadows, he really doesn’t have a choice but to answer. It’d just been a throwaway comment, he had no idea how the fuck Scratch had heard him that far away, but such is his life, he guesses. “Uh,” Wake starts, uneasy. “Yyyou.. said I was a bad shot.”

“I know that,” Scratch replies, almost cutting Wake off. He leans a little closer. “ _You are._ And _then what,_ Wake. Little hard to hear you, all the way over on the van, you know, really had to _strain_ and I want to make sure I know _exactly._ ”

“Uh, I said that I bet you couldn’t shoot as well as I could.” Scratch pulls away somewhat, glowering at Wake, raising an eyebrow, like he’s waiting for more. “Because.. I use guns more than you do.”

“You reeeeally think that, _don’t you_ , hotshot.”

“Yes?” Wake shifts, uncomfortable; the confused Taken behind Scratch have started to amble up the hill towards them, hissing shadows and muttering the same tired phrases to themselves. Wake’s grip tightens on the pistol he found earlier that night, falling back into the same pose he’d used since the Bright Falls days: wrists together, gun on top of flashlight, both ready to be deployed together.

“Relax. We’re talking.” Scratch rolls his eyes at Wake, raising an eyebrow. “I’m serious. You really do think you could out-shoot me. You, Sir Tweed, lord of the elbow patch, think you can out-shoot me, a natural-born killer and general superstar.”

“ _You’re_ the one who said you don’t like guns, and I have to shoot everything that fucking moves these days,” Wake retorts, feeling a level of annoyance at Scratch’s bullshit that actually borders on rage despite himself. “Why _wouldn’t_ I be better at shooting.”

“Because I’m better than you at _everything,_ ” Scratch hisses. He’s obviously feeling the same rage Wake is. They both seem to have forgotten who and where they are; Scratch leans back into Wake’s face and Wake lowers his weapons, despite the Taken standing around them in a semi-circle like a shadowy wall.

“So _prove it._ ” Wake snarls, matching the venom in Scratch’s voice. He can’t help but lean forward, mirroring his own mirror. Somewhere deep within himself he’s embarrassed, but it’s too deep to touch the surface. “Six shots each, whoever loses-”

“Blows the winner.” Scratch smirks at him, obviously expecting him to back down.

“What? No. Fine,” Wake spits, grimacing. “ _Fine,_ whatever. Loser blows the winner. No fucking cheating.” He turns on his heel towards the snack bar, trudging up the dusty hill through a silently parting Taken sea.

“Me? Cheat?” Scratch laughs, voice incredulous. Wake can tell he’s following closely, and from the sound of it, the Taken are, too. “I’m naturally good at everything, Wake, unlike _some people_ I actually get out once in a fucking while.”

“Sure,” Wake replies without looking back at him. There was a revolver up here somewhere, casually left on a barrel, and as they reach the wooden stairs, Wake spots it. He leaves his pistol on the barrel; the one thing he’d really held on to since Bright Falls was a refusal to carry more than he could handle, so he preferred only to take one handgun at a time, and yeah he was doing something stupid right now, but the rules were the rules for a reason. He wonders vaguely if he was dooming himself to having to shoot down however many Taken were filing quietly up the stairs right now with just a fucking revolver, but the weight of the shotgun on his shoulders reassures him. He’ll get through this. He has to.

Scratch is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, surrounded by the Taken wall again, tapping his dress shoe impatiently against the dirt, arms crossed. “Anytime, _bestseller,_ ” he drawls with obvious annoyance.

Wake ignores the Barry reference and pushes past him and his shadowy thug squad, towards the shack. There are cans on the ground inside, he assumes correctly, and he leans over the counter to snatch them off the shelves and ground, annoyed. “We each get three cans. Whoever uses the least shots to hit all the cans wins?”

“Fine, sure. Hope you’re ready to _suck._ ” Scratch smirks at Wake as he hands over three of the cans. Wake rolls his eyes, which just makes Scratch smirk wider.

Wake gently sets the cans on the edge of the rickety fence overlooking the cliff; he turns to Scratch, gesturing for the cans with one hand and offering the gun in the other. “It’s not loaded,” he says, pulling a box of bullets out of his back pocket and handing it to Scratch once his dark double takes the weapon, shuffling the cans around in his hands.

“You want me to go first?” Scratch snorts, taking six bullets from the box and loading them with a practiced hand. “Hope I don’t crush you too quickly, Alan, it’ll ruin your whole worldview.” Wake realizes his mistake: Scratch came to be after he’d been in Bright Falls a while. He likely has all of those same memories, a survival-borne practiced hand- hell, Scratch even shifts his feet the way Wake did, and still does. Wake grimaces, watching Scratch shift and glare at the cans, trying to fall into the right stance. “How far back?” Wake looks between the cans and the Taken, and draws a line in the dirt with his foot, the cans uneasy in his arms. “Good. Fine.”

The Taken watch, shivering and dark, surrounding Wake and Scratch in a thick wall. Wake eyes them nervously again, standing back behind the line with Scratch as he hems and haws on how to shoot the first shot; from here, there’s only one break in the Taken that Wake could feasibly run through for his life and not vault over a cliff side. There’s a flare in his pocket, but this looks grim. The second Scratch decides this little game is over, Wake’s fucked, and he knows it. He looks at them as if searching for some sign of hatred or cunning, but they just watch blankly, twitching and murmuring, unnerving Wake. Human shaped but entirely inhuman: Scratch and the Taken in a nutshell. He stifles a shiver and looks at Scratch.

“Are you going to shoot, or what?”

“Gimme a sec.” Scratch takes the pose, resting his wrists one on the other as if he too were holding a light, and takes a shot. One of the cans clangs and shivers, twisting and falling off the wood. Wake swallows hard. “Hah! See that?” Scratch smirks and looks back at Wake. “Just like riding a bike, right?” Scratch turns forward again and aims, but he misses the second shot. Clicking his tongue, he takes another shot- a hit. And then, buoyed by his apparent skill, he takes the next three shots in a rapid-fire _poppoppop_ , missing the final can. Scratch snarls, straightens up and glances at Wake, offering the gun, hanging by the trigger guard on one finger. “Ah, well. Can’t win’em all. Your turn!” he says brightly, and Wake grimaces, stalking over to the fence. He carefully sets two of the cans down, next to the final one; he drops the other as he returns to Scratch’s side, snatching the gun back and loading it slowly. The bullets slip in his sweating fingers but he takes care not to drop a single one.

Wake takes his place at the shooting line and drops into his stance, swallowing hard; Scratch leans against him, one arm draped across his shoulders, and breathes deliciously in his ear, “ _good luck, Alan._ ” He shows no signs of moving, even after Wake tries to shrug him off, so Wake adjusts, takes his time lining up the shot, and tries to ignore the sweat rolling down the back of his neck. Just three shots. He just has to hit all three cans, right? Easy- easy- they’re just Taken, he’s just-

Surprising himself, Wake takes three shots, and hits three cans in one decisive, mechanical movement. He straightens up immediately and Scratch does too, already shouting- “No fucking way!” -and running forward to inspect the cans, as if the leaking metal is lying somehow, bleeding out whatever was inside. Wake gasps and can’t stop the smile from spreading wide across his face as Scratch rounds on him, snarling.

“You lose,” Wake says, and his words are barely above a whisper from the shock. The Taken all shift behind him, their murmurs getting slightly louder. “You _lose,_ Scratch.”

“I can’t fucking believe this. How did you do that? You said no cheating, Wake, _what did you do._ ”

“I just- I took the shot,” and Wake shrugs, holding out the gun. “It’s not like I had some way to cheat.”

Scratch stares at him, eyes furious, and steps closer twice, slapping the gun away and out of Wake’s hand. It lands just a short distance away in a puff of dust, and Wake glances at it briefly, the anxiety really ramping up now. There’s a tense silence of several seconds as they stare at each other, Scratch breathing hard, Wake absentmindedly thumbing the pocket with the flare. “I guess I owe you your prize,” Scratch hisses slowly, and steps forward again, leaning up into Wake’s face, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, no, that’s fine, I’m good. The win’s enough.”

“So _humble,_ ” Scratch spits, rolling his eyes, “but fair’s fair, Alan,” and Scratch slides his arm around Wake’s shoulders again, as if they’re suddenly best friends; he leads the writer towards the shack, the Taken following in subdued plodding steps. He pushes Wake against the wood. “Fair’s _fair._ ” He presses up against Wake’s body, and Wake leans away instinctively, which allows Scratch to push his hips up onto the counter. Wake stammers, and Scratch pushes one finger against his lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t _bite._ ”

“That’s not-” Scratch’s apparently practiced fingers are already unzipping Wake’s jeans, tearing the flap open; he presses his palm against Wake’s crotch, who jerks forward, giving a short strangled moan. “You don’t- look, it was just a joke, right? You don’t have to.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, buddy,” Scratch smirks up at him, palming Wake’s dick through his boxers, and leans up against the writer so their faces are practically touching. “You _earned this,_ ” Scratch breathes, and that shoots directly to Wake’s dick faster than the touch does, his warm breath and aftershave smell heady. Scratch kneels onto one knee, arms and torso draped across Wake’s open thighs, which he pushes slightly wider to accommodate his chest. Wake braces against the wood, gripping it tightly, watching with a terrible mixture of curiosity and fear coiling in his stomach.

As Scratch pulls Wake’s dick free from his boxer flap, Wake notices the Taken surrounding them again. The dark wall of bodies is as quiet as they can manage, swaying slightly, the hiss of shadows on their bodies almost worse than the muttering. But Wake can’t hear them speaking, and if he didn’t know better, it would seem to him as if they’re just waiting. Scratch must be controlling them, he thinks, trying to rationalize this disturbing barrier watching him get fondled by his own doppleganger, and then Scratch licks the head of Wake’s dick and it immediately doesn’t matter.

Wake gasps, jumping in Scratch’s grasp, and Scratch chuckles. He’s got Wake’s balls in his hand now, the flaccid shaft draped on his fingers for ease of access, and there Scratch can kiss and lap at it, teasing Wake to hardness. Vaguely Wake remembers that Scratch would naturally know all his kinks and wants, and so it shouldn’t be surprising that Scratch’s ministrations are almost exactly what gets to him, exactly what he needs to get hard fast- but it is. It’s surprising that Scratch seems so willing to lick the length of him greedily, the wet smear reacting to the chill of the night in such a way that just makes it so much more enticing; it’s surprising that Scratch grips his balls so gently, just enough that the pressure sends jolts up Wake’s body, making him shiver and gasp. Wake grips the rotting wood and huffs, getting harder with every movement, every little lick and lap and gentle kiss Scratch places on him, and he legitimately moans, one shaky hand finding Scratch’s hair and nestling in.

“You’re so fucking _easy,_ Wake. You like that?” Scratch murmurs against his dick, kissing the shaft and nipping at the skin ever so gently, his evil hand squeezing again. Wake’s hard now, gripping Scratch’s hair more tightly, and his hips lift slightly, needy. “Jesus Christ, you _are_ pathetic, I love it,” Scratch laughs, and then without warning slides Wake’s dick into his mouth, almost completely. Wake gasps loudly and thrusts his hips up; Scratch’s other hand tightens around Wake’s hips, as if to keep him in place. Scratch’s head starts to bob, unrelenting and demanding. He slides up to the top, sucks at the head for a moment before going down again and again, driving Wake insane. He wants to buck up into Scratch’s mouth, and his hand is now so tightly wrapped in Scratch’s hair that he has to be pulling it, but Scratch doesn’t seem to mind. He moans, in fact, the harder Wake pulls, the low register sending vibrations up the length of Wake’s dick in a tantalizing shiver.

The Taken watch, silently, as Scratch goes faster and faster, and Wake gasps and moans louder and louder, wrapped around Scratch. Wake feels Scratch gag around him once or twice, and it drives him insane; despite himself he starts to use Scratch’s hair to push him further down, deeper, faster. Despite himself, Wake hopes something in the Taken can hear this, see this: Scratch’s body splayed out below him in the dust, throat deep on Wake’s dick. That just for a moment, Wake’s the one in charge, the one on top. Scratch’s hand twists in his clothing, but Wake ignores it, thrusting up into Scratch’s throat, delighting in the slick noises and soft moans and gags. He cums fast, panting, and Scratch swallows easily, in a way that feels uncomfortably practiced. He sucks on Wake’s dick a little longer, tongue teasing the shaft, until Wake makes a soft pained noise, and then he pulls his mouth off with a satisfying _pop!_ Scratch leans up, lips slightly puffy from the work, and raises his eyebrow.

“Damn, Alan.” Scratch licks his lips slowly, like some kind of twisted porn star, and winks. “Didn’t expect you’d be so _rough,_ bad boy.”

“Sorry,” Wake replies, sheepish and honest. “I just- uh, lost it. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I know, I’m good. You’re welcome.” Scratch pushes up from the wood, standing and slicking his hair back with one hand, looking back at the Taken. “All right, all right, let’s break up the show, boys.” The Taken shift, some of them turning back to move towards the drive-in parking again, while others disappear in a puff of Darkness. “I’ll give you ten minutes to recover, Wake, and then I’m sending someone after you,” Scratch says, matter-of-fact, turning back to face the panting writer. “So clean yourself up, damn.”

Wake glowers at him but Scratch just winks again, smirking, and disappears into his own puff of Darkness. Cocky bastard.


End file.
